


Debt Collection

by whichclothes



Series: Spectresverse [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes





	Debt Collection

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**   
|   
[50kinkyways](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/50kinkyways), [debt collection](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/debt%20collection), [spectres](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spectres), [spike/xander](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fxander)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Debt Collection (1/1)**_  
 **Title:**  Debt Collection  
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Xander, Xander/ Dracula (sort of)  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summary** : Xander is repossessed  
 **A/N:**  This is a sequel to [**Spectres**](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/212691.html) and [The New Weirdness](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/230547.html) and [Repertoire](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/231172.html) but can be read on its own. Uses the [](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/profile)[**50kinkyways**](http://community.livejournal.com/50kinkyways/)  prompt "candle wax."  Beta work by the wonderful [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) .

  


 **  
Debt Collection  
**

 

Seriously, the kidnappings had to stop.

You get bonked on the head and dragged away for sinister purposes once, that sucks. It happens a second time and you get angry. But when it’s happened enough times that you’ve lost count, well, that's just fucking _enough_.

This time should have been better. Yeah, somebody gave him an especially vicious whack to the skull so that he woke up Christ-knew-how-many hours later with a screaming headache. And yeah, when he woke up he was gagged and chained inside something that felt suspiciously like a coffin, and he was bumping along in some kind of vehicle, which meant he was probably a long way from home. But he also knew the cavalry would come. His boss would call when Xander didn’t show up for work and, although it’d be too sunny for Spike to venture outside, Spike would call Buffy. Buffy would round up Willow and Giles and they'd have a Rescue Plan.

But this kidnapping wasn’t better, because Xander was hurting and cramped and scared. And he already missed his vampire.

 

***

 

Xander really, really had to piss. His muscles were cramped, he was sweaty and hot, his jaw was sore from being forced open with the gag, and he was thirsty; but at the moment his bursting bladder was his biggest complaint.

He was very close to wetting himself when the jostling abruptly stopped. A moment later his box was lifted and carried for some distance, and then was set down with a jolt. The box lid opened and he screwed his eye shut against the sudden light.

But he didn’t keep it closed for long because he wanted to see where the hell he was. When he cautiously peeled his lid open there was a familiar face smiling down at him.

“Manservant!”

Oh, fuck.

Strong hands lifted him out of the box—he saw now it truly was a coffin—and set him down on a wooden floor. He was still gagged, with a short chain at his ankles and another around his waist; his wrists were bound to the belly chain. He swayed a little on his bare feet and realized that the entire room was tilting gently to and fro. He was on a boat.

And the thought of all that water wasn’t in the least helpful.

So when a big guy with a bulbous nose finally untied the gag, the first thing that Xander rasped was, “Bathroom.”

Dracula frowned at him in puzzlement. “Pardon me?”

“Bathroom. Need one _right_ now or I’m gonna make a puddle on your floor.”

“Oh.” The vampire made a small face. “Vasile, take him.”

The big guy grabbed Xander’s elbow and half dragged him out of the cabin, down a narrow passageway, and into a tiny bathroom. The _head_ , Xander noted, since they were on a boat. Then Vasile began to unzip Xander’s jeans.

“Hey! No touching!”

Vasile growled back something in a language Xander didn’t recognize and yanked the zipper all the way down. He stuck his hand into Xander’s boxers and fished out Xander’s dick—and Xander would have put up a bigger fuss but he was in no position to fight and he still had that urgent need to take a leak. Luckily, Vasile let him go as soon as Xander’s dick was free, and Xander squatted inelegantly over the toilet and peed for about twenty minutes. Despite his desperate situation, he felt a hell of a lot better when he was done.

Then Vasile roughly tucked him back in and, without bothering to do up the jeans again, dragged Xander back to Dracula.

Drac was sitting in a big, ornately carved chair, leafing through an enormous book. “Better?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow.

“Well, I’m not gonna piss myself but I’m not exactly pleased. What the hell are you doing with me?”

Dracula shrugged elegantly. “You’re mine. I am…repossessing you.”

“I’m not a car! And I don’t belong to you.” Xander lifted his chin defiantly. “If I’m anyone’s, I’m Spike’s.”

“Oh, do not be ridiculous.” Dracula waved a hand dismissively. “That vulgar, strutting little fledge.”

“That vulgar, strutting fledge is my…whatever he is.” That was awkward. He and Spike hadn’t really had a Relationship Talk, and Xander certainly didn’t want to try to figure out the shape of whatever they had now, in front of Dracula.

“Ridiculous,” Dracula repeated. “You are my manservant. You have been for years and it was only out of beneficence that I’ve permitted William to make use of you thus far.”

“Hey! He hasn’t been ‘making use’ of me! I mean, okay, I pay for the rent and the blood, but he makes me dinner and protects me when we patrol and keeps me company. So I’d say I’m making use of him, just as much.”

“Pfft,” said Dracula, sounding like a leaky bicycle tire. “Now, look into my eyes and we shall be finished with this nonsense.”

“No!” Xander cried and turned away. He tried to hobble out of the cabin but Vasile easily caught him and manhandled him back in front of Dracula who, in the meantime, had stood. Dracula leaned in close to Xander’s face and Xander screwed his eye shut.

But a very sharp fingernail was tapped against Xander’s eyelid. “Open, unless you wish to lose this one as well.”

Xander had an extremely vivid sense-memory of what it had felt like when Caleb stuck his thumb in Xander’s left eye. It was definitely not a feeling he wanted to have again, and he didn’t exactly want to be blind either. With a growl of frustration, he opened up and looked at Dracula. He waited for that odd, fuzzy sensation to come over him, sort of like having his head filled with warmed cotton candy.

But the fuzziness didn’t come, and he wasn’t suddenly overtaken with the urge to snack on insects either.

Dracula obviously noticed the problem because he frowned and stuck his head even nearer, so that all Xander could see was a slightly blurry close-up of pale skin and dark pupils. But still, nothing happened.

“Why are you not submitting to my will?” Dracula asked peevishly. He probably wasn’t used to not getting his way, Xander thought.

“I’m not submitting to anything!”

Dracula stepped back. “You are trying my patience. Vasile, confine him.”

Time passed very slowly after that. As best as Xander could tell, they were on board Dracula’s private yacht. Xander was kept in a tiny room—really more a closet than a room—with nothing inside but a thin mattress and two scratchy blankets. There were no windows and no source of light other than the little bit that crept in under the door. He was kept in chains, which was pretty much overkill, seeing as the door was bolted from the outside.

Periodically Vasile or another bulky minion opened the door and dragged him to the head. When they decided his clothing was a nuisance, they simply tore it off him. He was faced with the indignity of having to piss and shit under their stony stares. Then they would haul him to a slightly larger room and plunk him down onto a splintery bench that hurt his bare ass and they’d unchain one hand so he could eat the unappetizing stew and hard bread they slammed on the table in front of him. As soon as his food was gone, he was taken to Dracula’s cabin where Dracula tried, with increasing impatience and no success, to thrall him. And then Xander would be returned to his miserable little hole.

The manacles rubbed at his skin and he was filthy and he needed a shave. He spent the long hours picturing the things he would like to have Buffy and Spike do to Dracula and all his goons.

He was in a really foul mood by the time the ship docked.

Then Vasile gagged him and jammed him back into the fucking coffin. He was carried off the boat and the coffin was set down. A while later, the goons let him out and he saw that he was in the back of a small panel truck. The truck drove for endless hours. Xander remained chained and, except the two times they gave him a plastic bottle of tepid water, gagged as well. He had to piss in a bucket.

Eventually the truck stopped, and when they yanked him outside, he figured he must have arrived chez Dracula. It was a castle, anyway—a half-crumbled Gothic horror complete with moat and a drawbridge, which creaked shut behind him. They made their way through an empty courtyard and finally entered the building. There was no sign of Dracula.

They walked what felt like miles through dusty hallways, until Vasile shoved Xander into a room. There were two windows, although they were covered with heavy iron bars. There was some genuine furniture as well: an enormous canopy bed and several chairs, a desk and a table, and an ornately carved armoire. There were some lamps and, incongruously, a modern-looking space-heater plugged into one wall. So Dracula’s castle had electricity, and that gave Xander hope that it had plumbing as well.

Dracula’s men finally unlocked the chains and unbuckled the gag. Without another word they left, slamming the door and loudly engaging the lock.

Xander rubbed at his chafed wrists and explored. He let out a shout of happiness when one door opened door to reveal an actual bathroom with a real toilet and a deep cast-iron tub. There was a big cake of creamy soap and a bottle of what he hoped was shampoo—the label was in some language that hadn’t discovered vowels—and thick towels. He took a long, steamy bath and for the first time since he was kidnapped, felt marginally better than miserable. When he finally emerged from the water, pruny and clean, he discovered a safety razor and comb and a first aid kit with some cream to rub on his wrists and ankles.

There was a lot more waiting after that. Two weeks of it, actually, judging by the number of sunrises Xander watched through his barred windows. At least he was more comfortable now, and Vasile and the other thugs brought him decent food. He had clothing, too. Stupid clothing: man-tights and ruffled shirts and long velvet jackets that made him feel like a waiter. But it was better than bare skin.

He was also bored out of his skull. Vasile and the others remained in his room only long enough to drop food off or take away empty dishes, and they didn’t say a word to him. He tried to read the books he found tucked away in a corner on a small shelf, but they weren’t in English. And there was nothing much else to do other than mope and brood, or think about Spike and jack off.

When Vasile and two of his pals came to Xander’s room one evening and led him down twisting corridors, Xander felt an odd mixture of relief and trepidation. They took him into a very large room with oversized, overdone furniture and red brocade curtains and a piano in one corner. Dracula was waiting for him, resplendent in black and white and a long cape, holding a glass of what might have been red wine in one be-ringed hand.

“I hope you have enjoyed my hospitality thus far, manservant.”

“Hospitality! I’m your prisoner!”

Dracula shrugged. “I could have held you in the dungeons instead.”

Of _course_ Dracula would have dungeons. “Look, what the hell do you want from me?”

“I have told you this already. You are mine.”

“But I’m—” Xander decided not to try those useless arguments again. “Look, what’s with your obsession? There’s nothing special about me. There’s plenty of better-looking two-eyed guys out there, guys who would make _much_ better manservants.”

“Oh, but you are mistaken.” Dracula reached up with his free hand and cupped Xander’s chin in his hand. “You are special. I cannot say what it is, but since the moment I saw you, I simply had to have you. And I am used to getting what I desire.”

Xander managed to free himself from Dracula’s grip. “Well, you can’t have me. So…kill me, throw me in your dungeon, whatever. You’re not half the vampire Spike is or a quarter the man, and I won’t be yours.”

But Dracula didn’t seem impressed with his bravado. “Mortals. You are endlessly amusing.” He walked over to a small table where a glass decanter rested on top of a lace doily and he refilled his glass. He took a small sip, pausing to savor the taste. “I have been thinking about why I was unable to thrall you, and I have concluded that your missing eye is to blame.”

“See? Damaged goods! Just let me go.”

Dracula ignored him. “I could simply have you remain in chains, of course, but that becomes quite tedious, and it limits your utility considerably. So I have been investigating alternate means of ensuring your loyalty to your master. And I have discovered a ritual that I believe will work. We will be performing that ritual this evening.”

“No!” But of course as soon as Xander made a move towards the door, there was his old pal Vasile and a couple of the Dracula’s other helpers too. They grabbed Xander and held him tightly.

The vampire hardly seemed to notice the commotion. He took another drink from his glass and then set it down. “Of course, if the ritual is not successful, I have an additional alternative: I can sire you. Then you shall be mine for eternity.”

Xander found himself unable to breathe properly. He did not want to be killed, but he’d prefer death to being turned by Dracula. “No,” he whispered.

“I’d prefer you human myself. It pleases me to have servants who can run my errands during the day, and who bring warmth to my home.” He shrugged. “We shall just have to hope the ritual works. Vasile?”

As Vasile and friends followed Dracula, dragging Xander with them, Xander reflected that this was a very good example of being between a rock and a hard place. By morning he’d either be Drac’s permanent butt-monkey or a soulless monster. Neither was his top career choice.

The room they took him to must have once been a chapel. There were still the broken remains of a few pews—they’d make great stakes, if Xander wasn’t being restrained by 800 pounds or so of goon—and some of the stained glass windows were intact. A large stone lay across the altar; it was inset with heavy manacles. A tall, narrow table was next to the altar and a variety of items lay on top. Xander didn’t really want to look at them too carefully. The entire room was dimly lit by two enormous candelabras that had been placed against the front wall.

He tried to struggle or dig in his heels, but he was pushed and tugged forward until he was at the front of the room. After a brief, incomprehensible command from Dracula, rough hands tore off Xander’s clothing—again!—and then he was forced down onto  the stone, spread-eagled on his back. His wrists and ankles were bound and, although he tugged at them, the chains didn’t give at all.

Dracula snapped out another order and the men quickly left. As soon as they were gone, Dracula peeled off his own clothes, folding them neatly and setting them in a pile off to one side. When he turned his back, Xander saw that it was crisscrossed with ancient, silvery scars. He was thin and as white as chalk, with the hairs at his chest and groin almost shockingly dark in contrast. Surprisingly, he was circumcised.

He caught Xander staring and gave his crotch an angry look. “The Turks did this to me. Nearly 600 years have passed and their empire is long fallen, yet still I wear their mark.”

“Uh, sorry,” Xander said, because he supposed it did kind of suck, being stuck forever with whatever patterns life had made on your body. If Drac turned him, Xander would be a one-eyed vamp. Maybe centuries from now he’d be lamenting to some poor captive about Caleb. That wasn’t a happy thought.

But Dracula inclined his head slightly, as if he appreciated the sympathy, and then he started fussing around with some of the items on the little table. After a moment he walked over to Xander carrying a fat candle and a book of matches.

“You know, even if this works, or if you turn me, Spike and Buffy are totally gonna kick your ass,” Xander said.

“Even if they were able to find us, the Slayer has other, more pressing matters, I am sure. And William has already forgotten you.”

That didn’t ring true to Xander at all. Buffy would try to save him no matter how busy she was. And whatever Spike’s faults may have been, fickleness in love wasn’t one of them.

But Dracula lit the candle and tossed the matches aside, and then he began to chant. Xander couldn’t understand the chanting, but the words sounded ancient somehow, and he could imagine cavemen standing around a fire and singing that same song. All the fine hairs on his body stood on end as if there were electricity in the air, and his skin felt sort of tingly. Dracula loomed over him and very carefully dripped a line of hot wax from the top of Xander’s chest all the way down his torso, stopping just short of the base of Xander’s dick. It hurt and Xander tried to yelp, but found he couldn’t make a sound. Dracula made another line, this one running cross-wise from one of Xander’s nipples to the other. A fat droplet of molten wax landed on the center of Xander’s forehead, two long lines ran the length of his legs, and another two traced his arms.

Dracula set the candle down on the stone between Xander's feet, which was a bit of a relief, but then he vamped out, which was not. He bit into his own wrist and held the dripping appendage over Xander’s body, the thick blood making complicated patterns atop the wax. As he waved his arm around, Dracula kept on chanting, the words not changing, not making any more sense the hundredth time than they had the first.

And then, after some time passed and Xander still couldn’t make a sound, the words _did_ change, becoming more sibilant, with strange little clicks and back of the throat choking sounds sprinkled in, like a cat hacking up a hairball. Xander’s skin tickled and twitched; it felt as if he were being covered in invisible spiderwebs. A sickly floral smell like rotting roses filled his nostrils. And then he saw that Dracula’s cock was slowly filling, the pale flesh becoming rosy as it hardened. Which would have been alarming enough, except at the same time Xander’s dick betrayed him by thickening as well, until it stood up stupidly between his legs and Dracula looked down at him with a triumphant smile.

“  
Szeretnél táncolni velem?  
” Dracula said “Will you dance with me, my dear?”

He picked up the candle again and tilted it so that a thin stream of wax drizzled down onto Xander’s leaking cock, onto his balls, and that should have hurt—it _did_ hurt—but at the same time Xander was straining against his bonds, trying to lift his hips up.

“Tell me you will dance, Alexander. Tell me and I shall free you and we shall dance until the end of time.”

Something clicked in Xander’s throat. He could speak again, he realized, and his body was begging with him, pleading: just say yes. Just one very short word and he would be treasured. He would live in luxury, never having to half kill himself hammering by day and slaying by night. He would live forever. Just one little word.

“Fuck you!” Xander shouted. “I belong to Spike!”

And just like that, the spell was broken. The creepy feeling on his skin and the scent of dead flowers disappeared. His dick deflated. He was just a scared, cold, naked guy chained to a stupid rock, with a disgusting mess of blood and dried wax that was going to be a bitch to get off his skin. Assuming he lived long enough to bathe, that was.

Dracula’s smug grin faded and was replaced by a furious snarl. “How dare you! You ungrateful _dog_! I offered you eternal life. Now you will remain nothing but a simple minion!”

He grabbed a key off the little table and unlocked first Xander’s wrists, then his ankles. As soon as he was free, Xander tried to scramble away. But of course the vampire was too fast for him, and Dracula tackled him, bearing him to the cold stone floor with his own weight so that Dracula’s cold and bony body was digging heavily into Xander.

Xander continued to buck and squirm as Dracula pried at his head with strong, thin fingers, trying to get access to Xander’s neck. Xander managed to get in a good, healthy bite of his own, chomping nearly all the way through Dracula’s hand. That was ironic and strangely satisfying, but ultimately useless. It only made Dracula spit incomprehensible syllables that must have been profanities.

“Yield!” Dracula screamed.

“Bugger off!” shouted Xander, who may have been spending too much time with Spike before being kidnapped.

Dracula grabbed Xander’s shoulder with his bloody hand and worked on prying Xander’s head out of the way with the other. It felt like he was going to break Xander’s neck which would, Xander thought, be better than being turned.

“Kurva Szar! Yield, kutyafasza!”

“Well, that’s a bit embarrassing, innit? Being caught bare-arsed, I mean.”

Dracula froze.

Underneath him, Xander didn’t freeze—he roared and, with a heave and a desperate wriggle, managed to extricate himself. He scrabbled away and made his shaky way onto his feet, then stood there, panting hard.

Dracula stood up too, more elegantly, and turned around.

The cavalry had arrived.

Spike was in the front, in gameface, his fangs bared in a vicious grin. Slightly behind him was Willow, her hands raised with a ball of purple static between them. She looked almost as fierce as the time she nearly ended the world. Buffy was on Spike’s other side with a stake in one hand. And next to her—Jesus Christ!—was _Angel_ , also wearing his demon face but looking not very comfortable about the nudity in front of him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Dracula demanded. He didn’t look as scary without any clothes on.

“Came to take back what’s mine, wanker.”

“He is mine. He was merely on loan to you.”

“No! He was mine first!”

Xander now knew what a chunk of rawhide felt like when clamped between the jaws of a pair of Rottweilers. He opened his mouth to protest, to point out that he was perfectly capable of choosing a vampire himself, thanks very much, when Angel took a step forward. “Spike’s right. God, I never thought I’d say that. But it’s true. I gave Xander to him in 1997.”

“Three full years before you showed up, buster,” Willow added.

For some reason Xander didn’t understand, these words actually made Dracula frown. He turned and looked at Xander. “Is this true?”

Xander decided this wasn’t the time to mention ruses or freedom of will. “Yep. Deadboy there practically wrapped a bow on me before he handed me over to Spike.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. “Look, Vlad. It’s like this. You can argue with us over this and end up zapped, staked, or just plain broken. Or you can give us back our Xander and unlive to skulk another day.”

Spike gave her an incredulous look. “We’re not going to let the tosser survive!”

Angel shook his head. “He’s doing a really good job of keeping a handle on demonic activity in Eastern Europe, Spike. We dust him and thousands will die.”

“I don’t bloody care! He stole my boy! Look what he was doing to him!” He gestured at Xander who was, naturally, still naked and smeared with blood and wax. “Bloody mojo! And he was going to fucking turn him!”

“Thousands, Spike. You want them on your conscience too?”

Xander was tired of watching them play the vampire version of good cop/bad cop. He was tired and cold and he didn’t want to be naked in public anymore. He stepped around Dracula, giving him a wide berth, and walked to Spike. He drew Spike into his arms. “I don’t want those deaths on either of us, Spike,” he whispered.

Over Spike’s shoulder, Xander saw Willow pulling and stretching at her fireball as if it were taffy. The colors shifted; instead of purple, it glowed in pinks and greens. She tossed it at Dracula, who didn’t have time to duck. It splashed over him like a water balloon, dissipating immediately.

“What have you done?!” he demanded.

“Just a teeny little bane spell. No big deal. Unless you come within ten feet of Xander and then— _POOF!_ Vampire flambé.”

Dracula took several hasty steps backwards.

“Will that do?” Xander asked Spike. “Please? I just want to go home.”

Spike glared at Dracula, but his gaze softened when he looked back at Xander. “You fought him.”

“Of course I did.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s creepy and stalkery, and not in the nice stalkery way like you were. And he’s not you. You’re the only vamp for me, Spike.”

Spike took a long, shaky breath and embraced him back. Then he pulled away and, muttering something about everybody having already had too much of a show, shrugged off his duster and tugged it onto Xander.

“Tell you what,” Buffy said to Dracula. “You can have Eastern Europe, okay? I don’t have any Slayers around here anyway. But you keep your skinny, white butt out of the USA. Got it?”

Dracula hunched his shoulders and nodded once. He looked pretty pathetic. “I could have given you so much,” he said to Xander.

Xander squeezed Spike. “But all I really want is right here.”

They left Dracula’s castle after that. They all piled into a truck advertising German ice cream, and Xander was sure there was a story behind that but he didn’t really care right then. Buffy climbed behind the wheel with Angel riding shotgun, and Xander and Spike and Willow went in the back, where there were blankets and pillows and a huge thermos of hot coffee. As Buffy drove away, she and Willow started talking a mile a minute, going on about tracking spells and wards that wouldn’t let them enter the castle until Xander broke the spell somehow, and a bunch of other stuff that Xander didn’t bother to follow. None of it mattered. He was being held tightly in Spike’s arms and Spike was whispering to him about baths and epic bouts of shagging and days spent eating pizza and cuddling in front of the television.

Xander Harris belonged to a vampire. The _right_ vampire. And he’d never been happier in his life.

 

 _  
~~~fin~~~  
_

 

 

  



End file.
